It doesn't make any sense. People weren't meant to live here Unless exiled. The cold is bitter, deep, painful, enduring. When it breaks, it breaks with a sudden rush. The long-frozen ground spends months Trying to catch up with the season. No time for long, spring green lawns Dappled and framed by flowers. Here the green, the flowers emerge through standing ice water, And before you know it, it's time to cut hay. But there's a time When there is still as much brown as green, When the woodcock whoops and whirls Just out of sight in the dazzling sky, The ducks splash and preen in the ditches and fields, And the smell of the mud is everywhere. Then you begin to forget the cold, The sting of the snow against your cheek. Then you note each blade of grass,
Each moment of sunshine
With gratitude. Then it makes a little sense.